14 | Georgia
IT’S 3:55 P.M. as I walk up to the door of Dr. Randie’s office. I check my watch once more for good measure.
Good, I think to myself, I’m early. Maybe I can take a moment to speak to Dr. Randie, let her know a piece about Henry Anderson is NOT going to w–
My thoughts are halted by the sound of laughter on the other side of the door. A woman’s laughter.
Is that Dr. Randie?
I push open the mahogany door, not bothering to knock, and find that it is Dr. Randie. She’s standing behind her desk, organizing papers and looking back periodically at the man sitting in the office, one ankle casually resting on his opposite knee. His arms are stretched behind his head, with two woven hands supporting the base of his skull – the position, though seemingly nonchalant, effortlessly highlights the intense curve of his tanned biceps.
Anderson.
I clear my throat, immediately gaining both of their attention.
“Georgia, sweetheart! So good to see you. I was just getting acquainted with Mr. Anderson here.”
He flicks his gaze in my direction, his charming smile once again displayed across his face with no sign of his earlier vulnerability.
His eyes still fixed on me, Dr. Randie takes a moment to discreetly point at him, her arm half-tucked beneath her to hide the motion. She smiles, her mouth agape, and raises her eyebrows.
“He’s cute,” she mouths quickly, careful to ensure he doesn’t notice.
I roll my eyes at her, shaking my head and taking the chair beside his.
“So,” she begins, “Georgia, I’m sure you’re aware of why you’re here. Mr. Anderson, though, has yet to be informed.”
From my peripheral, I see him shoot me a confused glance. I keep my eyes on Dr. Randie, refusing to make eye contact.
“I – as well as Coach Bryer – have read the article Georgia wrote about football fundamentals,” she continues, “but, unfortunately, we’re afraid it won’t capture the… greatest interest out of our student body.”
She looks at me, her eyes softening.
“With that said,” she says, shooting her signature half-smile in Henry’s direction, “I’d like for Georgia to focus her remaining articles entirely on you, Mr. Anderson. It’s my understanding that you were recently drafted to the Lone Star Mavericks. Congratulations, by the way–”
“Oh, I wasn’t drafted,” Henry interrupts respectfully, shifting his weight in his chair as he speaks. “I won’t be officially entering the draft until next year. But the Mavericks made a deal with me that, once I do enter the draft, I’ll be a first-round pick. Which is as good as being drafted I’d say, but… a little different.”
“I see, dear – thank you for clarifying. So, with that, Mr. Bryer and I believe that garnering interest in the captain of our TU Titans, one with a certain career ahead of him, could help gain the support we are both looking for.”
She folds her hands in front of her, glancing at me to assess my reaction. I say nothing, refusing to acknowledge the horror that is writing a series of articles over Henry Anderson, still with no literature column in sight.
Barf.